


won't let you let me down so easily

by deadlybride



Series: fic for fire relief [18]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demonic Possession, Drug Use, Gangbang, M/M, Mind Control, Pre-Series, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27146066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: When the demon possesses Tyson Brady, he has a very clear goal and a very defined mission. He also has some time to play, before he gets it done, and Sam's right there waiting to be played.
Relationships: Demon Possessing Tyson Brady/Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester/Original Male Character(s)
Series: fic for fire relief [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926739
Comments: 23
Kudos: 43





	won't let you let me down so easily

**Author's Note:**

> Written for wildfire relief.
> 
> Title from I Will Possess Your Heart, by Death Cab for Cutie.

First it's the rush. The wildspin of infusing through all this living meat and pumping blood. He opens human eyes and sees the world physical, graspable, _his_. The air's salt-rich by the ocean and stings his breathing lungs and he sucks in the pain, knowing his role, knowing his job, knowing—he doesn't have to do it right away. There's time to play.

Thanksgiving, the humans call it. Yeah, that fits. He rolls himself inside this new body, takes it for a spin. There's booze and drugs and fucking and hurt and he indulges in all of them. He doesn't go home and his inherited cellphone rings and rings with the little screen flashing _MOM_ and he grins and keeps driving west, back toward the university where his destiny waits, and on the way he kills a woman and eats the throat out of her—he ODs on heroin, in a pit of a house in Albuquerque, and when the dealer's rolling his body to take his wallet he stands up smiling and makes the man choke on his tongue—he arrives in Palo Alto and goes to the apartment off-campus someone's paying for, and orders a case of rum, and gets so drunk his new fresh body actually struggles to heal the ruin of it—and it's like that, when he's like that, that there's a thud on the apartment door and then it busts open, and big hands grab his face and he hears, "Hey—hey, Brady, come on—come on, wake up, man, what's up with you?" and he opens his blurring eyes to see—Sam Winchester. His destiny. He smiles, sloppy, and Sam sits down like his strings were cut and says, "Jesus, man, you scared the hell out of me," and Brady thinks, drunk and wild and happy—god, Sam, you haven't seen anything yet.

Sam's mad at him. Sam's careful with him. Sam expects him to vomit and so Brady kneels over a toilet and does, relishing the lurching jerk of it—the muscle contracting painfully, the acid in his throat—but Sam's right there, touching his back warmly, holding a cup of water when he's done with the performance. "You think that's it?" Sam says, and Brady nods fake-miserably, and Sam helps him up to his feet. Tall, strong. Brady leans against him, weak, and Sam holds his shoulders, says soft, "Hey, hey—it's okay, you're gonna be okay," and Brady rolls his eyes where Sam can't see and thinks, this? This is their savior?

Soft, is what he thinks. Sam puts him to bed, half-carrying him. Soft and weak, gentle hands and worried mouth. "Your mom called me," Sam says, quiet in the dark of Brady's bedroom. "You just disappear on Thanksgiving night? Dude, what happened?"

Booze won't help for this. Brady heals himself, his borrowed flesh tingling and forced into health. "Couldn't deal," he says, croaky, and Sam's lips press together. His eyes are hard to see in the dark, but Brady likes him better that way. He lets one hand lurch out, grabbing, and he gets Sam's leg—his thigh, long and warm—and the muscle flinches in surprise but Sam lets him do it, and—fuck, Brady thinks. Azazel sure can pick 'em. This dumb kid, supposed to lead hell's armies? This boy?

Brady looks at him, curled on his side on the bed. Sam covers his hand, looks back. He is soft, Brady thinks. Pretty and young and untested, no matter the life they'd made sure he led. He hadn't been allowed on that detail but he'd heard the stories—careful possessions, planned damning words in Winchester the Younger's ear. Be your own man; rebel; conquer. He'd run from home; he'd refused his father's rule; but rather than conquering he was just… here, jogging in the mornings and doing homework. Dreaming of law school, and not vicious corporate work but criminal defense, and Azazel wasn't having that.

The chosen day is a long way off: November 2, 2005. Almost two years. Brady looks at Sam, at his smooth skin and his hair hanging soft in his eyes, his hand broad and a little sweaty on the back of Brady's, and he thinks, yeah. Yeah, there's time to play.

*

It's not hard to fuck Sam, first. He plays the struggling druggie with a wound in his heart and Sam falls for it, easy as a dog who thinks you've actually thrown the stick and aren't just hiding it behind your back. Brady waits a week after that Thanksgiving and then falls off the wagon again, but this time he calls, sad and drunk in an alley behind a bar, and Sam appears twenty minutes later with the light glowing behind him. Like an angel, Brady thinks, and laughs, and Sam sighs at him and says, "Man, what happened," exasperated, but he helps Brady up to his feet and tucks Brady's arm around his waist, holds Brady's shoulders, and it's so easy to sway into him, to slide his hand to Sam's hip, to make him feel Brady's bodyheat, all against his side.

Sam's careful, upset. He associates alcoholism with his father and so Brady pulls it back, makes it more about covering up some nonsense secret. Some fake bad thing. Sam says, "You can tell me, you know?" and Brady nods, says, "I know," raw, and Sam's brow furrows, his hand settles soft on Brady's shoulder. Idiot. Brady licks his lips, takes a breath hitching and hesitant, and when he pushes in, when he catches Sam's mouth, Sam jerks back in surprise but he doesn't throw a punch. He's too _nice_ for that. "Hey—man, you're—" Sam says, and Brady moves his fingers in a little twist and whispers a language long-dead under Sam's jaw and Sam—pauses. Brady smiles against Sam's throat, feels it there—there, in his pulsing blood—when his inhibitions falter, fall. He drags in air and Brady lifts up and kisses him and this time Sam's curious, malleable. Kisses back, dumb and young and saying, "I didn't—" but Brady's not interested in what he has to say and fills Sam's mouth with his tongue, and he gets Sam's hand in his pants and gets jerked off, that first time, by his future sovereign, a hand around his throat and little whimpering uncertainty choked against his lips.

He spills all over Sam's shirt. Sam blinks at him, shocked. Brady lets go of his throat and smiles at the handprint there, and says, "Good," simple, and Sam colors up all pink, his dick swelled up and big in his jeans. Brady smears his come over Sam's shirt and bites his lower lip, and Sam shivers and says, "Oh, I—Brady—" and Brady shakes his head and breathes magic and says, "Go home, Sam," and so Sam goes back to his dorm room with jizz on his shirt tucked up under his hoodie, his mind all fuzz, and the next time they see each other Sam grins at him without compunction and says, "Hey, you doing okay?" and Brady smiles back and says, "I'm great, man," and it's—god. It's so, so easy.

*

He keeps fucking Sam. He can. The third time he doesn't even have to lower Sam's inhibitions by magic—they smoke up, instead, at Brady's apartment, and Brady slides his hand up Sam's thigh while Sam's laughing and pink-faced and gets his jeans open and Sam's—hard, that big dick all full and ready, and it's simple as pie to sweet-talk him over onto his belly, to magic him slick and open, to shove his vessel's dick inside, and Sam yelps and grips at the pillows— _virgin_ , Brady roars, inside—and Brady doesn't even have to give him a reacharound, he's so horny-ready. He creams up Brady's sheets and Brady fills him, and afterward he's dizzy-glad, surprised. "We ever do that before?" he says, puzzled and muzzy, and Brady laughs at him and kisses him and bites his nipple hard enough that there'll be a bruise, and when they wake up in the morning Sam's shy, sweet. Soft as a cotton-candy cloud, and Brady lets himself be kissed, in the post-dawn light, but then Sam goes off for a jog, and—okay. Easy enough to seduce Sam into loving him, it turns out, but it's not sustainable. Brady rolls onto his back, scratches his belly. He's already planned out how it's going to go, when he breaks Sam. He doesn't intend to be the subject of it.

Sam gets back, sweating. He smiles crooked at Brady from the bedroom door. "Hey," he says, like a dork, and Brady just barely doesn't roll his eyes. "So… what's the plan for today?"

Brady wants doughnuts and coke and to get his dick sucked. It doesn't have to be in that order. "Come here," he says, inviting, and Sam pinks and comes over, and even reeking of salt-sweat and ripe with his exertion he's soft, breakable. Brady catches his hands and guides Sam down to his knees, and when he swivels up to sit Sam looks up at him surprised but open, waiting. Brady gives him a smile. He'll wipe these memories, later. For now, he touches Sam's lower lip with one thumb and squeezes his cock with his other hand, and Sam's eyes flick down and then up, wide. "Would you?" Brady says, sweet, and Sam licks his lips and breathes in, pupils spreading dark, and—and yeah, Brady's going to wipe these memories, but not before he gets the image of pushing his cockhead against the pink wet lips of Sam Winchester. Chosen, special. Too much gag reflex, but Brady pets through his hair and grips his neck and smiles down at him, and thinks that they can at least work on that last one.

*

He kills a janitor, fills the bowl with blood, reports in. He's making sure to corrupt Sam, yes. He knows his job, yes. He knows the appointed day, yes. Sam's world will crack in half and he'll be shoved back out into the darkness. He'll get strong. He'll be ready, to lead them all.

Brady dumps the blood in the toilet when he's done and flushes it away. Sam will be ready. Brady will do his part. He's always done his part. Before he was Brady he had—another name, one he doesn't really remember. He was turned on the rack a thousand years ago and Azazel picked him, personally. Told him he would have a great work to do. His whole life—his unlife—has been preparing cruelties for this moment. He's never gotten to come up to Earth, he's never been allowed a vessel. He was told: Sam Winchester was his whole purpose, and he knew that it was true, and that it was important. He studied Sam's life, he learned its patterns. He knows what to do, when it's time. But it's not time, not yet. He knows his magic. He knows Sam. He'll get some fun, with his liege, before everything's done. One thing that he gets for himself, before Hell rises. One thing no one else will ever, ever get to see.

*

Brady's a member of Sigma Nu. He rushed early, made it in with ease. All his vessel's money and looks and smarts, it was apparently easy. He lived in an apartment but he hung with the frat brothers often enough, and they'd missed him. He brings Sam, the first time he goes back, and the boys… they think they're interesting, is the sad part. They think they're going to be leaders, when they make it out of here. Maybe they will—humans are stupid, it's possible—but it's so, so easy to manipulate them into doing what he wants.

They already smoke and it's simple to put a little something extra into the bong, passing it around. Sam's a little dazed already from the suggestion Brady put in his mind, and when everyone's puff-puff-passed it's easy to drag him up by his arm and grin lewd at the brothers and say, "Be right back," and pull Sam into the kitchen with the boys hooting from the living room, and make Sam jerk him off right there, nearly public with Sam's hands in his pants and Brady's tongue in Sam's mouth, bracing back against a 30-rack of Keystone Light, the sound of the baseball game pumping in, men laughing somewhere nearby.

When Sam's done he wipes Sam's hand on Sam's own jeans and tugs him back into the living room. He's obviously hard and the boys laugh nervous, uncertain. "Needed that," Brady says, casual, and shoves Sam down to sit on the couch. The kid next to him looks down at the big bulge of his dick and then up at Brady, grinning awkwardly. Brady says, "I'm fuckin' starving. Pizza? My dad's buying," and that gets a sort-of cheer, and they eat pizza and watch the end of the baseball game and Sam sits there silent and horny and in his own world, and when they leave Brady sees that kid who'd been sitting next to them watching, and he smiles to himself, and sends Sam home to his dorm with a free mind, hungry and confused.

Sigma Nu throws a party. Co-ed. Brady convinces Sam to come, to meet people. "I don't know, man," Sam says, clear-eyed, fretting. "I've got this poli-sci paper due."

"Yeah, yeah," Brady says, half-drunk and fun and harmless. "But does poli-sci have lovely female conversation?"

Sam rolls his eyes. Brady oozes charm. Sam sighs, and says, "Okay, but just because you're gonna need someone to scrape you off the floor when the party's over," and Brady grins at him and brings him to the party and there are, yes, girls there, and there's also a shitload of booze and a healthy haze of weed in the air, and that boy, who looks surprised to see them both, and more surprised when Sam doesn't recognize him at all when Brady drags him over to say hello. He gets Sam a beer, and a tiny dose of spellwork, and it's not an hour before the fraternity boys and the sorority girls are pairing up—dancing, making out, practically fucking in the dark corners under the stairwell—and Brady picks one of the upstairs bedrooms and gets Sam on his knees and sucking his dick, soft and warm and sweet, and he left the door open so that when that boy walks by—Preston, Brady thinks his name is—Preston stops in his tracks, staring, at that big floppy-haired dude just worshiping a fellow brother's cock.

Brady smiles at him, gets his hand in Sam's hair. "Dude, he was gagging for it," he says, like it's a secret, and Preston huffs big-eyed, and Brady pushes his hips up so that Sam really does gag, and then pulls Sam off by his hair, and tips his face up and says, "Hey," soft, and Sam blinks at him stupid with his mouth all wet-dark open, and Brady says, "Hey, don't you want to help him out?" nodding at Preston, and Sam blinks and turns his head and looks at Preston lurking like an idiot in the doorway, and Sam—jesus, Brady's good—Sam nods, inhibitions crumbled to dust, and Brady beckons Preston over and gets him stumbling close, undoing his Brooks Brothers slacks, and Sam kneels up and noses in and sucks his dick right down, and—ha, Preston nearly comes just from that first slurp. Brady sits back in his chair, jerking himself idly just to keep the erection. Preston stares down slack-jawed, watching Sam's head bob, and Brady says, "Dude, fuck him already, he won't bite," and Preston blinks and says, "Yeah?" with a crack in it, but he gets a hand on Sam's head and moves his hips, and Sam groans and moves with it, accepts it, and then—yeah, good. Brady gets to watch Sam's face get fucked by some dumbass whose slacks are falling down over his ass, and he gets to watch the dumbass cream Sam's throat, and Sam chokes and falls back on his heels, and Brady says, "Good, right?" and Preston can only stagger, dumb. "Yeah, he's good," Brady says, rolling his eyes, and then tugs Sam right back over to sink that warm wet heaven back over Brady's cock, and Sam makes a little startled noise but closes his eyes, splays his hands over Brady's hips, sucks.

Preston says, "Holy shit, man," dazed.

"I know, right?" Brady says. "He's obsessed with dick. That's why he's so good."

Sam doesn't even flinch. He slurps up on Brady's dick, breathes hot around it, goes back down with every evidence of pleasure. Preston zips up his pants, pink-faced. Brady grins at him. "Might keep bringing him to parties," he says, "as long as that's not a problem."

"No problem at all, man," Preston says, and stays in the doorway, watching, while Brady grips Sam's ears, fucks up into his throat, makes him choke and gasp and makes his eyes leak desperate, and when Brady comes, when Sam swallows it, when Brady pulls his head back and pets his lips, Preston says, "Shit," faint and impressed, and Brady strokes Sam's cheekbone, smiles into his vacant eyes. Oh, the adventures they'll have.

*

Week of Dean's birthday. Brady knows these things because he has to. Sam's restless, fidgety. Brady's long since stopped pretending to go to class but he's hanging out in Sam's dorm watching him study, and drum his nails on the desk, and type one sentence before backspacing. Brady's been doing some calculations and he knows the time for fun's almost done—he's got the girl picked, he's got the charms ready to ensure she falls just like she's supposed to, he's got the timeline set up—but there's still a month. A month, that's his.

"You gonna rewrite that sentence one more time?" he says, behind his magazine.

Sam sighs, and drops his head to the desk. "I can't concentrate," he says.

"No shit," Brady says, and gets a dirty look for it. He grins. "Hey, c'mon. It's Sunday. You get one day off, right? Before you go back to being Mister 4.0." Sam grimaces and Brady waves a hand. "The guys are watching the playoffs. Let's relax, already. Have a beer, watch a game. Come on."

"I haven't really been following football," Sam says, reluctant. Of course not. He's either studying or he's on the end of a dick. Not that he's really aware of that second part.

Brady grins at him. "I bet you'll be able to follow the storyline," he says, and gets Sam to sigh and gets his mouth to curl, and Brady stands up and grabs Sam's neck and says the words and watches, rapt like he is every time, as Sam's eyes go from focused and rueful to blank.

He opens his phone right there in the dorm room, with Sam watching his face. "Hey, Pres," he says. Sam's eyes are on his mouth, moving. "Bringing our boy over. You guys want to have a good time?"

*

There are kegs, leftover from a party the night before. There's a reek of weed in the air. There were probably some random girls that got shooed home, soiled and wondering where their panties are. Brady's corrupting Sam; corrupting the good kids of Sigma Nu is a side benefit.

The football's on and they're ordering pizza, wings. The boys are fidgety and too-loud, as usual, when Brady brings Sam in, laughing over stupid shit and not doing a great job of keeping their eyes on the television, where they're supposed to be. It's all a little much, Brady knows. It's not even noon, the sun shining high and bright, the day fresh and chilly outside. It's not supposed to be like it is, in their trashed living room, when Brady walks in grinning and says, "Hey, fellas," and pushes Sam to his knees there by the couch, and says, "Who wants first? I need a beer."

He leaves, for a few minutes. Like he's making a call. He stands outside in the pretty morning, pumps a beer from the keg. Drinks it, flat and bitter, and throws the empty red cup into the bone-dry fountain full of dead leaves, and when he goes back inside he smiles, because the boys are sitting around drinking, watching the first quarter of the game, talking about some chick that flashed her tits to the whole party last night, and Sam's on his knees in front of Preston, swallowing his cock, being used. Like he should be.

They had to build up to it, but it didn't take nearly as long as Brady might've thought. It was a little challenge—dragging in first Preston, and then Clark, and then showing the boys that, no, it wasn't _gay_ to get your dick taken care of. What did it matter who was sucking it, as long as it was getting sucked? And then it was, sly, _you ever fucked someone's ass?_ and Clark and Preston and Weasel had been high and unsure, and Clark said _that's nasty, dude_ , and Brady had laughed and walked around behind Sam where he was bobbing fast and desperate over Preston's lap and said, _nah, check it out, I'll show you_ , and shoved down his jeans, and then—well, getting off was getting off, right? What did they care, if Brady's huge friend was into it?

They didn't check too hard, to see if Sam was into it.

"Beer?" Brady says, holding a cup over the back of the couch, and Preston says, "Oh, yeah man, thanks," and takes the cup, and sips, and says, "Nah, man, that was holding! Look at the replay, watch!" and Brady watches Sam's lips, split wide and already dark pink, bobbing up and down on Preston's frankly unimpressive dick.

"Hey, sharing is caring," Brady says, nudging his shoulder, and Preston glances up at him and snorts, but he slaps Sam's cheek and says, "Up," and Sam lifts up with his eyes unfocused, looking for the next dick. Benji's next to Preston and he's already palming himself, and so Brady nods, and Sam peels his athletic shorts down with clumsy fingers and fits between Benji's spread knees and swallows that dick instead, and that's—good. That's just right.

The pizza shows up before halftime. The guys eat, argue about pass interference. "Dude, 47 was practically humping that receiver all the way down the field," Dent says, to general laughter. He's jacking his dick, waiting his turn. Sam's got Pink's cock in his throat, making gagging sounds but not letting up, and Pink's got a big, big dick so Brady gets to see the tears streak down Sam's face, his cheeks red, his hands gripping Pink's ass and encouraging it, asking for more. He always wants more, when he's like this. Silly Sam, not wanting to be empty.

Pink pulls out, dripping—nasty gooey wet, stringing from Sam's slack mouth—and shakes like a horse, walking over to the pizza with his dick cupped in one hand. "He sucks dick better than my girlfriend, that's for fuckin' sure," he says, to Brady, and Brady smiles, watching Sam get pulled onto Dent's cock instead. "Where'd you find this guy?"

"Oh," Brady says, "we're good friends," and Pink snorts and bites into a buffalo wing, and then it's halftime, and Brady walks over and crouches by Sam, watching close. His eyes are still watering, even if Dent's not as big. His nose runs. His lips look sore. It has been an hour, and he's not made of steel. Time to change it up. "Hey," he says, and Sam's eyes smear open and look at him helpless, but Brady's not talking to him. Dent grunts, focused on burying his dick in Sam's throat. "Let's change it up, huh?"

The couch is a good height, and Sam's tall. He's clumsy like this and so Weasel helps, yanking off his hoodie while Brady strips away his jeans and boxers and shoes, and he's left in a t-shirt— _Metallica M2K Tour,_ with the dates splintered and washed-illegible on his back—and his white socks, and Brady spares enough magic that the boys won't notice, slicking his hole but not stretching him—because after all, why?—and these kids are too dumb to use condoms for any reason except not to get a girl pregnant, so when Rob pushes in it's bare and shocking-tight, and Sam's knees scrabble on the seat cushion and his hands grasp the back and he groans, loud, and Brady lifts his chin up and looks into his eyes and says, "Yeah, fuck him—good little cocksleeve, isn't he?" and Rob laughs and says, "You're nasty, man," but he fucks in, gripping Sam's t-shirt like a handle to yank him back on Rob's dick, and Brady gets to watch while Sam gets railed, like the soft little bitch he is.

They take turns. Weasel fucks fast, humping in quick and mean, digging his nails into Sam's hips. Pink takes it slower, casual, his balls slapping in a good rhythm, and when he pulls out he slaps Sam's ass hard enough that Brady winces, and Pink laughs, going to get another beer. Preston pushes Sam's lower back down into a tighter arch and churns his dick inside, lazy and still arguing about that holding call from earlier with Benji, and when he pulls out Benji slips right in after him, resting his beer on Sam's back and watching how his dick splits Sam wide, the dark inches of it pulling at Sam's pink, easy.

"Move over," Brady hears, and there's Clark, casually jerking the dick sticking out of his board shorts. Clark shrugs, nods at Sam's panting face. "He's got two holes, right?"

Brady laughs. "Dude, knew you were the smart one," he says, and steps back, and watches Clark grip Sam's hair casual and mean and yank him forward, flattening his chest to the back of the couch so his mouth's in easy position to fuck into. Sam moans before he's filled, and then moans again, and Clark sighs, nods, humping easy into him. "Nice," Clark says, "my dick was getting cold," and then he says, "Oh—hey, second half!" and the guys arrange themselves the better to watch, while Sam gets railed sore on the couch furthest from the TV.

It's really perfect. "Spit in his hole, I think he's getting dry," Brady says, when Rob takes over again, and Rob shrugs and hocks and spits nasty, right into the split valley of Sam's ass, dragging it down with one thumb and then pushing his cock through it, and on the other end Pink's pushing his cock right back into Sam's throat and leaving it buried there, idly flexing his ass while he watches the next possession. "Oh—nah, nah, false start!" he shouts, and Brady slips his hand around Sam's neck, feeling it flex in unthinking animal panic, wanting to force out the obstruction. Sam's eyes tip toward Brady's, looking for assurance, and Brady squeezes the sides of his throat, where his blood's pumping sluggish and drugged, making him even more dazed. His dick's half-hard, dangling between his spread thighs. Brady wonders, trying to think back. Has Sam been allowed to get off, once? All these trips to the frat—he's not sure it's come up.

Weasel in Sam's mouth, Preston in his ass. "Spank him," Brady suggests, and Preston snorts but Weasel leans forward, actually does it—fast, hard, smacking loud enough to ring in the room.

"Yeah, bitch likes it, doesn't he?" Weasel says. Brady suspects he'll be popular, with the demons, when it's his time. "Yeah, fuck him like he wants, Pres."

"I'll fuck him like _I_ want," Preston says, dry, but he does fuck Sam harder, and Brady swings over the back of the couch and checks, when Preston pulls out, and oh, yes. All split-open, gaping. Perfect doll to play with. He plays his fingers inside, three and then four, and Weasel comes down Sam's throat, bitching—"Ah, fuck, he sucks too good—"—and staggers away, and Sam's got come dripping down his chin and Brady's got most of a fist in him and Sam looks at him over his shoulder, vacant and wanting, and Brady smiles, and says, "Okay, boys, who's next?" and there's Rob, and Benji, and Pink, and Dent.

Sam's shuddering, when the game's over. Four loads in his ass and three in his throat. His hole won't quite close up and his lips are cracked and dry at the edges. The boys are mostly gone from the living room—showering, talking about going over to the park for a game of shirts and skins—only Rob still there in the recliner, his shorts barely pulled up, watching the post-game commentary.

Brady slips his fingers into Sam's asshole, curls them in all that sloppy slackness. He gets his other hand around Sam's throat and pulls him up, so he's arched back on Brady's hand, his head tipped back on Brady's shoulder. He works his fingers against Sam's prostate and watches his dick drip, full and neglected, useless.

"Hey, you gonna take your turn?" Rob says behind him, lazy. "Bitch is yours, right?"

"Hm, what do you think?" Brady says. Sam blinks at him, confused and shivering. Brady squeezes around his throat, smiles at him. "You ready for me? Bitch."

An odd moment. Sam's face—ripples. His eyes focus, his pupils contracting back to their normal size, and he mouths something that Brady doesn't quite catch. It's just a moment, because the magic's still holding him by the hindbrain, making him docile, but it's enough to make Brady pause, frown. He feels betrayed, almost. Like someone came in and had their fist around Sam's heart, when it's been decreed that for the next two years it's Brady's, to play with.

Sam's dazed again, but Brady's searching his eyes now, focused. He still has a month and he's going to get every single raw second out of it.

"Hey," he says, casual and friendly, looking back over his shoulder at Rob. There's a grunt, Rob still mostly paying attention to the mind-numbing post-game. "Bitch still wants more. You got any friends who might be interested?"

It gets Rob's attention and he raises his eyebrows. "Seriously?" he says, but it makes him grin. "I mean—yeah. No question asked fuck? Sure. I'll go again too."

"Sure," Brady says, and, easily upping the ante, "Any of the guys can take a turn. Figure we'll really stuff him, this time. You guys haven't DPed him yet, right?"

"Shit," Rob says, dropping a hand to his lap, and Brady laughs, says, "Yeah, call your boys. Sammy here's good for the day."

Rob opens up his phone to text someone, and Benji's coming back in from the kitchen, saying, "What's that?"

Brady turns Sam over, sprawls him on his back on the couch. His thighs loll open, tired, and he licks his dry lips. "You'll be good for me, won't you," Brady says. Sam stares up at him, breathing slow. "You'll do exactly what I want."

He leans down, while Benji's calling one of his friends. A party seems to be getting arranged, with a special party favor planned. Brady won't let Sam get fucked to death, but—well. A little more hurt won't hurt. He noses against Sam's cheek, kisses him soft. "Whore," he breathes, into Sam's mouth. "Hole. Not good for anything else, are you."

He's really not. Sam lips are hot, puffed. Brady spits on his face and it lands on his cheek. Seeps into the corner of his mouth. This useless, soft, empty toy. Azazel's going to run through him like a freight train. Oh, well. Brady will set it up, like he's supposed to. In a month. For now—

"Want to get him started?" he says, lifting his head, and Weasel's looking hot-eyed down at Sam's vacant face, already jerking his angry little dick.

"Fuck yeah," Weasel says. Brady nods, smiles friendly. Gets up, and gets a beer, and settles down in the recliner, to watch the future king of hell's second gangbang of the day.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/632657805148635136/in-support-of-wildfire-relief-an-anonymous-reader)
> 
> Would appreciate any thoughts you have.


End file.
